Rilla of Ingleside

But before she had discovered any, Bruce Meredith came to Ingleside one twilight with his hands full of delicate pink sprays. He stalked up the steps of the veranda and laid them on Mrs. Blythe's lap.

"Because Shirley isn't here to bring them," he said in his funny, shy, blunt way.

"And you thought of this, you darling," said Anne, her lips quivering, as she looked at the stocky, black-browed little chap, standing before her, with his hands thrust into his pockets.

Ingleside did seem very big and empty that night

But before he put on his hat to go out on his round of calls he stood for a moment in the great silent living-room that had once been full of children's laughter.

"Our last son--our last son," he said aloud. "A good, sturdy, sensible lad, too. Always reminded me of my father. I suppose I ought to be proud that he wanted to go--I was proud when Jem went--even when Walter went --but 'our house is left us desolate.'"

She was thinking of little Joyce's grave in the old burying-ground over-harbour--little Joyce who would have been a woman now, had she lived--

Two of my sons have gone and one will never return. Must I give you too, Shirley?"

It seems as if gladness were killed in me--shot down by the same bullet that pierced Walter's heart

the first Christmas since Courcelette

Una took the letter and when Rilla had gone she pressed it against her lonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now--it was buried for ever under the blood-stained soil "Somewhere in France." No one but herself--and perhaps Rilla--knew it--would ever know it. She had no right in the eyes of her world to grieve. She must hide and bear her long pain as best she could--alone. But she, too, would keep faith

Thank you," said Una. It was all she said, but there was something in her voice which repaid Rilla for her bit of sacrifice

I will even laugh--through all my years, because of you and because of what you gave when you followed the call."